


Skin Memory

by Runespoor



Category: DCU, DCU - Comicverse
Genre: F/M, M/M, shippy parading as gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-24
Updated: 2011-03-24
Packaged: 2017-10-17 06:03:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/173698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Runespoor/pseuds/Runespoor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One night, one way Jason can't get his past off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skin Memory

**Author's Note:**

> post- _Under the Hood_.

The girl's fingers brush against the scar when she slips her hand behind his neck.

He can't feel anything there anymore, but the roll of skin is raised against the rest of his throat. When he bares his throat in front of a mirror and strokes his thumb against it, his head tilted back and to the side, he feels it too. There have been times he's rubbed his fingertips raw and red against the too-smooth, too-new tissue, and when he pressed them together afterwards he felt them burn.

The scar only ever remains pale and cool under the friction. He forgets it's there, often, until he runs his thumb against it – random gesture, not even a nervous tick – or someone else reminds him of it. Like now.

She's felt it too, flinches, and moves to take her hand off. Jason's fingers close around her wrist as she brushes the skin again, and there's a tiny noise out of his throat—

“Hey—”

“No, wait--” she disregards Jason's loose hold on her wrist and pushes the collar of his T-shirt aside, and he forces the urge to squeeze out of his hand “--what's that?”

The bar's bathroom is not quite dark enough to conceal anything. Jason's head falls back against the wall with a clunk. It's not that head that requires attention, right now, even if her shifting her lower body against him when she tries to get a better view is enough to keep him interested.

“Can it wait? I promise, I'll give you the whole gory story _after_.” Scars are nice. He likes them too, on him and on others and he's never been shy about them, but... Not this one.

The girl shakes her head, caressing the whole length of the scar with a reverent finger. Jason's not sensitive on the scar, but... It's a big scar, she gets all close, her hips are flush against him and her breath is flush against his neck, and he shudders.

“No _way_ , now I wanna know.”

She sounds a little breathless, amused. Interested. The same kind of interested that's got him tracing small circles on the skin of her inner wrist and that makes him part his legs just so, so he can get his foot between hers.

He really doesn't fucking want to have to think about the fucking _scar_ right now, but if it's getting him somewhere...

He has an endless number of stories that might satisfy her. All true. Jason's saved working girls from abusive pimps to have the girl slash away at him. He's been outnumbered to absurd odds, two against two dozens. He's gotten in a duel to the death over someone while the third party laughed on and on.

Any number of stories. He could even get away with most of them.

Nice thing about Gotham, where you can get scars from costumed psychos for girls to get hot over. This one is getting _really_ hot over it, rubs herself against him and _grinds_ her hips, and usually Jason wouldn't think of complaining about having his lap warmed by a hot girl humping him in a club's dingy bathroom – he feels it, the warmth humming through his muscles, with the wall behind his back, solid and pulsing with sensation and the club's music, and that should be enough.

His hands fumble down, his nails scraping against the fabric of her skirt when he settles his hands on her hips, not holding, not controlling, just feeling it, feeling her, the strength with which she thrusts against him. He has his palms cupped around her, heavy enough that it'll feel good, light enough that she won't notice he's slowing her down, making her rocking deeper, throwing her rhythm, because every time she grinds she passes her knuckles over the scar, with the same bone-deep, feel-good, _obsessive_ rhythm.

Even with that, he can't dissociate the heat swelling between them from the outbreaks her fingers ripple over the scar. Maybe it's because his train of thought is getting slightly overheated and he's starting to wonder idly if maybe he's not getting chummy with one of Gotham's reserve nutcases—

“I'm afraid I'm not very good at skiing at all. Possibly I should have listened to my old man when he told me to take the descent easy, but...”

And he can barely recognize his voice behind the _words_ and the _accent_ that _aren't his_ , and his eyes widen in sheer, desperate _horror_.

He stares blindly at the wall opposite, feels his lips mouthing silent pleas.

 _God no. Fuck, fuck, fuck no. I – it didn't – fuck I didn't say that, he—_

The girl doesn't notice. She muffles a chuckle against the crook of his neck, her breath catching damply against the edge of the scar, running her hands down his suddenly rigid body.

“Must have been some skiing,” she-- doesn't purr, too hoarse for that-- she _growls_.

And then she slides her tongue against the scar, and Jason doesn't feel anything _on_ the scar, but the edges of the skin immediately around it are sensitive as hell, like all the nerve endings the scar covers got rerouted there. When she licks her tongue spills over the scar's path every once in a while, wet and searing like the leg she hooks around him. She presses herself relentlessly against him as if she wanted to melt them together.

Jason is dizzily aware of her left hand against the unscarred side of his neck, too small but keeping him in place anyway, nails pricking into his skin when his breathing grows heavy and almost painful, like a conscious thing roiling around in his chest and up his throat and out of his mouth, to pin him more effectively than this girl ever could.

He's propped against the dirty wall with her moving in front and around him and he's not sure he'd be able to stand if not for them.

His body feels mellow and warm and not _trapped_ so much as brushing completion with every scratch of nails on one side of his throat and if he forces his breathing just a little off he can almost fool his skin that it's calluses grazing it. Every sweep of wet and searing on the other side wrings the humming energy out of him; weak jolts that make his hands fall back against the wall and fist as if he wasn't allowed to touch, that arch his neck as if it expected the next touch to come from above, that make his thighs tremble and want to spread.

Then there are teeth racking the sticky trail along the scar.

Jason bucks, helplessly.


End file.
